And in truth the tale was strange enough, told in its main aspects:  the escape from Basildene, which to himself always partook of the nature of a miracle, the conflict with the powers of darkness in the Monastery, his adventures in France, and now his marvellous escape in the midst of the plague-stricken people whom he had tended and helped.  The ranger, who had lost his own wife and children in the distemper, and had himself escaped, had lost all fear of the contagion —­indeed he cared little whether he lived or died; and when he heard upon what errand the youths were bent, he declared he would gladly come with them, for the solitude of his cottage was so oppressive to him that he would have welcomed even a plague-stricken guest sooner than be left much longer with only his hounds and his own thoughts for company.

“If I cannot tend the sick, I can at least bury the dead,” he said, drawing his horny hand across his eyes, remembering for whom he had but lately performed that last sad office.  And Raymond, to whom this offer was addressed, accepted his company gladly, for he knew by recent experience how great was the need for helpers where the sick and the dead so far outnumbered the whole and sound.

He had gone off into a reverie as he sat by the peat fire, whilst Roger and the ranger continued talking together eagerly of many matters, and he heard little of what passed until roused by the name of Basildene spoken more than once, and he commanded his drowsy and wearied faculties to listen to what the ranger was saying.

“Yes, the Black Death has found its way in behind those walls, men say.  The old sorcerer tried all his black arts to keep it out; but there came by one this morning who told me that the old man had been seized, and was lying without a soul to go near him.  They have but two servants that have ever stayed with them in that vile place, and these both thought the old man’s dealings with the devil would at least suffice to keep the scourge away, and felt themselves safer there than elsewhere.  But the moment he was seized they both ran away and left him, and there they say he is lying still, untended and unwatched —­ if he be not dead by now.  For as for the son, he had long since made his own preparations.  He has shut himself up in a turret, with a plentiful supply of food; and he burns a great fire of scented wood and spices at the foot of the stairway, and another in the place he lives in, and never means to stir forth until the distemper has passed.  One of the servants, before he fled, went to the stair foot and called to him to tell him that his father lay a-dying of the plague below; but he only laughed, and said it was time he went to the devil, who had been waiting so long for him; and the man rushed out of the house in affright at the sound of such terrible blasphemy and unnatural wickedness at a time like this.”

Raymond’s face took a new expression as he heard these words.  The lassitude and weariness passed out of it, and a curious light crept into his eyes.  Roger and the ranger continued to talk together of many things, but their silent companion still sat motionless beside the hearth.  Over his face was stealing a look of purpose —­ such purpose as follows a struggle of the spirit over natural distaste and disgust.